So many memories with his friend.
Thomas’s great-grandfather had built it when he was the Earl of Linsey. Sebastian remembered when he and Thomas sneaked in and took a few sips of liquor from a cabinet his grandfather kept hidden from them. Or so he thought. He couldn’t even remember what liquor it had been. Cognac probably. It had been their first time tryingspirits and they got so drunk that they lay flat on their backs in the drawing room later, laughing at the chandelier’s crystals sparkling in the light of the fireplace.
That was before Thomas’s father had renovated the castle and introduced gas lighting in every room. A big investment, and an admirable step toward modernity.
Thomas plopped onto a hay barrel and rubbed his thighs. “He’s tirelessly efficient and skilled at any task he sets his mind to. He’s gotten four hares, two foxes, and a deer today.”
“Just perfect, isn’t he?” Sebastian mumbled, picturing the servants skinning the poor animals that the duke had killed. Thomas caught his understatement and suppressed a grin.
“You are just jealous that you missed the hunting trip, Cambridge,” the duke said. A stable boy appeared and caught the rabbit carcass in a chipped porcelain bowl and carried it off. “We won’t be dining on anything you’ve caught tonight, hm?”
“At least we won’t be stuffing the heads of innocent animals as wall decoration either, Paisley.”
“Ah, well, you know I like to have some trophies to remind me of the fun we’re having.”
He poured himself a glass of whiskey and drank it without regard to the quality of the carefully aged liquor. Sebastian noticed that Thomas put on a placid face, ignoring that his guest completely failed to savor the expensive drink he’d so generously put out for Sebastian, not Paisley.
“Killing isn’t a sport; it’s not fun.”
“You speak like someone who can’t stomach the fowl, Cambridge. Sluggish appetite, eh?”
“I’m just saying that killing for sport is not—” but Thomas shook his head and Sebastian swallowed his words. They’d had this exchange time and again back at Oxford. It was no use arguing with the man. The duke hunted and engaged in every other sport that the men mightadmire, most garish as far as Sebastian was concerned. Also, Paisley was one to seek women out as a sport, burning his coin at the most expensive establishments in town. None were activities that Sebastian could ever favor.
“Now that you are walking down the aisle with a pretty blonde, maybe it’s my turn to find a trophy of my own,” Paisley said to Thomas.
“Lady Ashley is not a trophy. Watch your words,” Thomas barked. Was he defensive of his betrothed? How odd.
“I never thought you liked her,” Paisley muttered.
“You know nothing,” Thomas snarled.
“Why are you harping on the past?” Sebastian jumped in. “Like follows introduction follows love.”
“Always the romantic, Cambridge. You are too soft-hearted.” Paisley poured himself a second glass.
Sebastian wrapped both hands around his dimpled mug with a nickel plaque of Thomas’s crest. There were only three of these left, one for Thomas, one for Sebastian, and one locked away in the spirits cabinet for his late grandfather. Thomas’s father never had a sense of the brewer’s art.
“He wants to marry for love, like I am,” Thomas said dismissively. “Some of us have more than a title to give.”
“He’s read too many books; they made him soft.” Paisley hmphed.
“As far as I can remember, I outran you as a boy, Tom. I raced you on horseback and you were but a speck of dust behind me, Paisley. And I’m younger than you both.” Sebastian crossed his arms and stared at his friend.
“All I’m saying, Cambridge, is that you have to guard your heart. Those girls may look harmless, but they steal your heart and crush your bones.”
“Nonsense, Paisley. Not every girl wants to marry out of spite,” Sebastian spoke to the duke but Thomasought to know the reproach had been directed at him.
“Well, gentlemen, short of compromising a beauty, there is no sure way the woman of your heart’s desire will have you, is there?” Thomas said.
“I don’t want a woman to feel coerced into a union. If she wants me, she has to make it known,” Sebastian spoke before he filtered his words. He really sounded like a weakling. Plus, it would take years to find such a woman. Decades. Centuries. Unless…
“You want perfection, Cambridge—always have,” Paisley said, sloshing his drink as he leaned back. “But if you ask me, imperfections are far more accommodating. Give a little praise, and they’ll give you everything. No chasing required.”
The words sounded hollow.
Across from him, Tom gave a low chuckle and raised his glass. “There’s truth to that. The ones who don’t expect much rarely ask for anything in return.”
Revulsion curled in Sebastian’s stomach. He might be tired, still shaken from the lingering ache of his cold, but he wasn’t so far gone as to stomach this line of thought.
